Idol
by erttheking
Summary: After battle, a Wraithguard returns to his Craftworld. Instead of resting in the Infinity Circuits, he finds something that shakes him to his very core. Patreon sponsored story.


Idol

Author's Note: Here we go, April's one-shot. The prompt was a Wraithguard returning to a Craftworld and meeting...well, you'll see.

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Alvor lumbered forward, his Wraithcannon in his hands. There was a massive, gaping wound in his side, where the jaws of a Carnifex had torn into the torso of his robotic body. Had he still been of flesh and bone, he would have died a painful death. But he had already died long ago, centuries before against the Mon'keigh. His soul had been recovered, the death of an Exarch had been mourned in a dignified manner, and he had been placed within the Infinity Circuits of his Craftworld.

He had thought that he would remain there until the death of his species, when the souls of all Eldar would combine to form the god of death, but it had not been meant to be. He had been pulled away from the collective of souls and placed within the mechanical body of a Wraithguard. Tyranids were threatening his Craftworld, and he and hundreds of other lost souls were needed to defeat the swarm before they could reach it.

He had not complained, none of them did. They had marched into battle alongside their still living kin, their weapons blaring at the charging horde. They had made their stand on a frozen world that the Tyranids had chosen to gorge themselves on, their last stop before the Craftworld. It had been a hard battle. The Tyranids had recently feasted on an Ork held planet, bolstering their numbers to beyond counting.

They had found long and hard, and while the swarm had eventually been eradicated, a heavy cost had been paid. Countless warriors had fallen, their bodies torn apart by tooth and claw. Many Spirit Stones had needed to be cut out of the stomachs of the dead beasts in order to be recovered. Against the brutal fury of the Tyranids, however, many Eldar had not been so lucky.

At the very least, hundreds of Spirit Stones had been broken in the desperate struggle. It had been a terrible feeling for Alvor. He and his fellow Wraithguards had been fighting through a thick haze the entire time. The Shadow in the Warp the Tyranids had cast had made it impossible for them to see on their own, their Warlock handlers had barely been able to give them sight. Once the shadow had lifted, however, Alvor wished it had not.

Grief had fallen over the battlefield. He witnessed hardened warriors of many thousand years weeping over fallen and broken Wraithguards. They had composed themselves with desperate rigidity, fearing that they might join those who had been shattered, but Alvor knew that they still suffered.

The return to the Craftworld had been a quiet one. Eldar were often a stoic lot, but the silence had been different this time. It was not refined and dignified. It was tired and bitter. Alvor had felt it more than once. Of all the species that battled for dominion of the galaxy, his was the least numerous, with the possible exception of the infant Tau and the ancient Necrons. Even then, the Tau were growing in number while the Necrons were incapable of truly dying. The Eldar, on the other hand, were slowly dwindling.

Procreation was highly dangerous for them. The act had to be performed several times, the male only depositing DNA bit by bit. Every time, they drifted away from their martial rigidity, closer to She Who Thirsts. It was a cruel game of chance that they played, yet one that was needed in order to propagate their fragile existence. He himself had done it, in order to produce a son. It had been agony. Not the act himself, the act had been highly pleasurable, which had been the problem. He had yearned to continue beyond the point of need, to continue for the sake of his own pleasure. Alvor had come dangerously close to giving in, before tearing himself away. She Who Thirsts would never have his soul.

Yet, every day, more Eldar fell, their souls swallowed up by that gaping maw. No matter how hard they fought to preserve their souls, no matter what they did, She Who Thirsts continued to devour them. They were dwindling in number. Every day left fewer of them to see the next dawn. Many survived to be placed in the Infinity Circuits, but every soul that fell through the cracks was irreplaceable.

"Come now ancestor." Alvor felt a gentle tug as his Warlock handler pulled him forward, changing his direction ever so slightly. "You must be tired. You've done the Craftworld a great service. Just a little further and you'll be able to rest again. I apologize that we had to drag you away for this, if it were up to me you would never be disturbed. Sadly, the demands of the species outweigh our individual...ancestor?"

Alvor had turned away from the path that led to the Infinity Circuits. He, instead, walked down another path. He could not remember where it led, even though he himself had walked it many times before his death. He did not care that the Infinity Circuits were awaiting them. He had just seen the lives of who knew how many of his kin wiped out. Before he returned to his sleep, he would gaze upon those who still enjoyed life.

Craning his neck, a mainly symbolic gesture due to his lack of eyes, he spoke to the Warlock. Communication between him and the living was very difficult. He could not easily translate words from mind to mind in his current state, but he could make his basic feelings and desires clear to those who were trained. The Warlocks were one of those people. Hesitating, the Warlock gave a small bow. "Of course ancestor. You have earned that right. But I urge you not to dawdle."

Nodding, Alvor continued to head forward, the Warlock never more than one step behind him. He passed many Eldar, most of them warriors who bowed in respect. A few citizens were this deep in the Craftworld, and they stopped to stare in awe. Alvor doubted any of them had ever seen a Wraithguard up this close before.

Alvor simply continued to walk, stumbling slightly from the damage that had been inflicted on him, which caused the Warlock to glance nervously at him. Alvor did not stop though, but continued to move through the depths of the Craftworld, until something made him stop. A wide open field dotted by around a thousand Howling Banshees. All of them were divided into pairs, training blades in hand, viciously attacking each other. To the untrained eye, it would look as if they were trying to kill each other. Only to hardened warriors were the subtle signs of restraint.

An Exarch was standing nearby, watching over them, gaze darting back and forth as she kept watch for the tiniest flaw, barking out harsh reprimands if she spotted any. As Alvor approached, she turned and gave a tiny bow. "Ah, ancestor. Returned from the battlefield already? I thank you for your service, as does the rest of the Craftworld." Alvor stepped pass the Exarch, pointing at the crowd. He had no idea what, but something was drawing him to them.

"Oh, them?" the Exarch said. "They were dealing with Genestealers that were acting as the forward scouts of the fleet you eliminated. They were hiding in asteroids not far from where you fought. We had to make sure every last one of them was eliminated, lest a second Tyranid fleet be called down onto our position. They are battle tested, every last one of them. Still, they must keep their skills sharp until they choose to walk another path."

Alvor made a gesture, reaching out to the Warlock. "The ancestor would like to speak to one of them," the Warlock said. "It seems he wishes to hear of their feats."

"That is easily arranged," the Exarch said, before calling to two of the nearby Banshees. One of them stood still, sheathing her sword, while the other approached Alvor. "Celdra, an ancestor has honored us with his presence. He wishes to hear of your accomplishments."

Nodding the Howling Banshee called Celdra removed her helmet, tucked it under her arm, and knelt before Alvor, the point of her sword in the ground. "Honored ancestor. If it will please you, I took part in the Genestealer cleansing earlier today. My sisters and I were ambushed, but despite this, I took the lives of six of them."

"Now is not the time for modesty Celdra," the Exarch said. Unless Alvor was mistaken, there was a hint of pride in her voice. "Tell him what happened next."

"Nodding, Celdra continued. "The Brood Lord was at the head of this throng. He killed many of my sisters, but I persevered. For half an hour, I danced with the beast, hacking and cutting. In the end, I walked away, it did not."

"I would expect nothing less from my daughter," the Exarch said. There was no mistaking it this time, there was pride in her voice. "I hope you will forgive the boasting ancestor, but Celdra proved herself during that battle." Alvor felt amused, but that feeling was drowned out by something odd. He saw the Eldar around him as a mass of shining energy, but something was wrong with the arm that held her helm. It was not the same as the rest of her body. Silently, he pointed at it.

"Ah," Celdra said, sounding embarrassed. "The battle was...not clean cut. The Brood Lord took my arm with his first blow. I spent the majority of the fight avoiding a second. Still, I won in the end." She glanced at her arm. "A wraithbone construct, forged by the finest artisans we have. Only you could tell the difference ancestor.

Something felt very familiar about this woman. Alvor could feel a memory stiring in the back of his mind, but was as at a lost as to why. A sudden impulse struc him. He reached out to the Warlock. "Oh? Very well ancestor. He wishes to know who your father was."

"My husband was a Fire Dragon, a very brave man," the Exarch said. "We were together for a century and a half before he finally lost his life to the servants of She Who Thirsts and the rest of her kin. He…" her voice trailed off, and she made no effort to begin it anew. Alvor was fairly certain he knew why. Her husband was not within the Infinity Circuits.

Yet something about this all felt so very familiar. Something that he couldn't quite place but felt that he should be able to. He had a feeling that if he still possessed his original body, it would have been easy. What was it? "I miss him sometimes. My Asurgan." And then it all hit him. Asurgan. His son.

His son? He had had a son, he remembered that much. But the last time he had seen Asurgan when had been when Asurgan had first stepped onto the Path of the Warrior. It surely couldn't have been that long ago, it could only have been a few years at most. It was easy to lose track of time in the Infinity Circuits, but surely centuries couldn't have passed.

His son had been a young boy, and had been practicing in the ways of the Dire Avenger, not the Fire Dragon. To complete an entire path and then begin on a new one? No, impossible. And yet, somehow, he knew that that wasn't the case. He reached out again to the Warlock. "Was the path of the Fire Dragon his only path?"

"No, he was hardly so young," the Exarch said. "He was a Dire Avenger before that." There it was. Firm, undeniable proof. He was standing before his daughter-in-law and his granddaughter. He hadn't even known that his son had been courting a mate when he had left for his fatal mission, IF he had even been courting a mate. And now this? How? How was this possible?

There was a loud clunk. He had dropped his Wraithcannon. "Ancestor, we've tarried for too long," The Warlock said in desperation, reaching down and hastily hoisting the heavy weapon back into Alvor's hands. "You've been out of the Infinity Circuits longer than is healthy. Exrach, I thank you for sparing your time, but we must go."

Alvor didn't reply. His son was dead. He had not known. He should have known, and that fact that he didn't spelled a horrible truth for him. His son's soul had been swallowed up by She Who Thirsts. If not, he would've felt his son within the Infinity Circuits a long time ago. Out there, on a forsaken planet, his son's stone had been shattered. Perhaps one day his mate and daughter would join him. If not by falling in combat, the next time that the Craftworld came under attack. With a force too great for them to repel.

"Ancestor? What are-" the Warlock began, but before he could finish his sentence, Alvor had swung his fist in rage, putting a hole in the nearby wall. Every Eldar knew the failing of their ancestors before The Fall, but now Alvor felt boiling, white hot anger towards them. The selfish hedonist fools had doomed their entire species to a long and painful death. Perhaps potentially doomed all life in the galaxy to be the playthings of Chaos.

Even with all of the Mon'keigh that had joined the ranks of Chaos, the legions upon legions of common Mon'keigh and their bloated Astartes alike, they had not given as nearly as much to Chaos as the Eldar had during the fall. Again, Alvor struck the wall. How? How could such a weak and clumsy race have done less damage that one with a history as long and proud as the Eldar? They had not yet given birth to a god that terrorized their entire species, nor had they permanently scarred the entire galaxy. That shame lay with his kind, not theirs.

A handful of Eldar had been wise enough to escape this fate, but they were too few. The reality that all of his kind were heading towards was death, and for most of them, the slow destruction of having their souls consumed.

"Ancestor please! Control yourself!" the Warlock pleaded. Alvor paused. All of the Howling Banshees were looking at him now, no doubt concerned. No doubt they feared that another soul might be lost to She Who Thirsts. With a practiced rhythm, Alvor called himself. He wanted to curse his ancestors, to rage against him, but he martialed his emotions. He would not let her have his soul.

As he knelt to pick up his Wraithcannon, he wondered. The god of death, Ynnead, their only hope against the impossible odds that they faced. As the Warlock made his apologies and slowly began to lead Alvor away, he stopped and thought. Him. His son. His daughter-in-law. His granddaughter. A family doomed to fight a losing war, their bodies to be sacrificed futility. He idly entertained the thought of revealing his relationship to them. But no. He would not do that. He was not so cruel.

He could feel the anger rising him within him again, and forced it down. His species was doomed. There was nothing he could do to change it. They had lost. The only hope that they had was that She Who Thirsts would lose too. If they could create Ynnead, the Eldar may be allowed their last act of defiance. He comforted himself with this thought. If She WHo Thirsts were to finally be purged from existence, he would have a hand in it.

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Author's Note: It's a little short, but I honestly really like it. I feel like this kind of story doesn't really need to drag out, as the main point is to show the character's emotional reaction to the situation that he has been put in.. I hope that you enjoyed this! Though one thing I found rather amusing as I wrote this is that any non 40k fan would be utterly lost at all the terms I put in. Seriously, so many proper nouns,

I would like to thank my Patrons SuperFeatherYoshi, xXNanamiXx, Ryan Van Schaack, and RaptorusMaximus for their amazing support.


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